


Hooked

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Anal Hook, Bondage, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Predicament Bondage, Reader-Insert, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:33:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25838860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: It’s a real struggle, and he loves watching every minute of it.Something of a companion piece to “Caged.”
Relationships: August Walker/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	Hooked

It starts like this. He lets you out, and you have a few vanilla days, or as vanilla as he gets, anyhow. The striped bruises from the cage bars begin to fade, leaving lines of green and yellow. He pets your hair, pulls it back into a tail for you. You catch him looking, long and thoughtfully. 

It starts like that, yeah, with the tail end of what has to be the wildest thing he can come up with. When he’d proposed the cage, for fuck’s sake, it had been almost academic curiosity that had led you to agree. And now, after having been in it for a day and a night, motionless and cramped like a piece of fuckable furniture, you get it. Got it when he pulled your hair, knotting it around the bars to keep your head up. Got it when he dragged in a chair and kicked his booted feet up on the bars. 

And this? Objectively, it seems like it ought to be less shocking than it is. He’s had your ass before. Hell, he’s even had it plugged before, and sent you out to act like it was nothing. But when he sets the final knot and steps back to admire his handiwork, it has you shivering. 

The hook in your ass is cold, clinical, the weight of the ball at the end an insistent presence inside you, the shaft of it brushing chilly up your cleft. He makes you walk, turn, bend so he can look at you, see you start to sweat as you realize exactly what this means, as you start to realize this is more than any toy you’ve had before. Not just the physical sensation, but the weight of the knowledge behind it, the intimate control he has over you like this. 

He tests his handiwork, tugs at the ring on the hook’s long end and smirks when your knees buckle. “I’ll see you later,” he says before sending you out. And though his goodbye kiss is chaste, the look in his eyes is not. 

He’s waiting for you when you return, idly stroking one finger up and down the front of his trousers as he sits in what you’ve come to think of as the _oh shit_ pose. Legs open, chin down, head back so it’s like he’s still looking down on you.

“Get undressed and put your hands together.” Reflexively, you bring them together behind you but he shakes his head. You try again, holding them in front of you and that’s right, he’s getting up, tying your wrists together, lifting your arms to check the knots. “Flex. Good. Comfy? Because you’re gonna be here for a while.”

He gets you on your knees, which you suspect is his favorite position for how often he has you there. Brings your arms above your head, then bends them at the elbows so your hands are pointing down behind you. He unwraps the ropes from your torso, attaches them to your wrists. And then he settles in to watch. 

This is pure torture. The hook digs at you, the rope pulling it painfully deep. You can find relief by pushing your arms farther down behind your head to slacken the rope, but when they grow tired they drift back up and then it’s the hook again. And it’s like that, over and over for hours, until you just can’t stop crying. 

You’d expected him to leave you to it like he did with the cage, but he sits there and watches the entire time. Doesn’t even take his cock out, even though through your haze of tears you can see it straining the front of his pants. Doesn’t say a single word, just sits and watches and idly strokes himself through the fabric. And then. 

“Please.” It’s small, weak, tumbling out of your mouth before you know you’ve said it. His hand stills. 

“What was that? I didn’t quite hear you.” 

And so you say it again, and again, and again. Until he stands and grits his teeth, pressing his palm hard against himself. Until he removes the ropes, helping you bring your hands forward with surprising gentleness. Until he eases the hook from your body, the ball end tearing a sob from you as it slides free. And then he lays you down, and whispers promises of what it’ll be like next time.


End file.
